The hallway smelled like dust and damp wood.
Bawang Putih stepped inside first. The air was still. The kind of stillness that made every breath feel like a risk.
Behind him, Jahe moved without a sound.
Putih reached for the switch. The bulb flickered once, then lit. Yellow. Faint.
And then he saw her.
Bawang Merah.
She stood in the living room, hair messy, eyes rimmed red. A framed photo trembled in her hand—Jahe's graduation portrait.
"Where have you been?" she asked, voice sharp. "I've been calling all night."
He stepped between her and Jahe without thinking.
"Back off."
She blinked. Confused. "What?"
"There's nothing to talk about." His voice trembled, and he hated that it did.
"You're not well, Putih. I've been trying to reach you for *days*. And Jahe…"
She looked past him.
But not at Jahe.
At empty space.
"Jahe's gone," she whispered.
Putih grabbed Jahe's arm. It was cold.
He didn't care.
"Come on," he muttered, dragging him upstairs. "We're not doing this tonight."
Bawang Merah didn't stop them.
She just watched with the expression of someone staring at a puzzle they couldn't solve.
The door to his bedroom shut with a quiet click.
Only then did Putih let go.
Jahe sat on the bed, rubbing his face like he'd just woken from a long dream.
"She doesn't see me," he said.
Putih didn't answer.
"She talks like I'm not here."
"You're here," Putih said.
Jahe looked up. "Am I?"
He didn't sleep that night.
Just lay in bed, listening.
Rain tapped against the window in bursts. The house creaked like it remembered something terrible.
When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of metal.
Crushed doors. Red lights.
Jahe's hand slipping from his. His scream lost beneath sirens.
He woke up with the taste of blood in his mouth.
Morning came late. Gray light spilled into the kitchen like smoke.
Bawang Merah was already there, making coffee. She looked tired. Too tired for someone her age.
"You need help," she said quietly.
"I don't."
She didn't argue.
Just slid a photo across the table.
Putih didn't want to look. But he did.
It was a newspaper clipping. Dated six months ago.
"Two Teens Injured in Crash: One Dead.
He didn't read the rest. He didn't need to.
"He's not gone," he said. Voice flat.
Merah's hand touched his wrist. "He is, Putih."
"No."
"I was there."
"No."
"I identified the body."
"Shut up," he snapped.
But even as he said it, something inside him cracked.
Not broken. Just… loosened.
That night, he stood at the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection.
Jahe stood behind him in the mirror.
Silent.
Smiling.